Our email correspondence (until he moved to Gotham) stretches to almost a thousand emails each, almost all of them saved individually in txt files with names like “fmark232.txt” [the 232nd email from Mark to me] or “tomark33″ [my 33rd email to Mark]. As you can imagine, it’s hard to find a reference amongst all that, especially 15 years after the fact.

Tonight I was searching for the text of this Little Chat vignette, which I did using the Search function on my PC. It turned up many emails, and the first one I opened turned out to be the one in which he confessed that he loved me. I barely remember this email, but encountering it again absolutely slayed me. I won’t quote it. My eyes are still swollen.

I did eventually find Mark’s vignette and have posted it below as well as under the Stories tab. The scenario was Mark and Casey at the Lewises. This was an alternate reality to Home School, one we only played a few times. The idea was that Mark and Casey had run away from the Orphanage and had been found and adopted by the Perfect People (Dr. & Mrs. Lewis). I later (or was it earlier?) wrote a companion piece to his vignette, which I also posted under the Stories tab. After reading them both, I feel his is much better: more direct, less fussy and complicated, more spontaneous and full of heart. Looking at both scenarios from far away, I would say that we never lived or much played the letter of them, but the mood and heart of them were a constant feature of our life together, especially Mr. Prior’s life with Casey.

Without further ado, then, here is Mark’s piece, Wednesdays.

Wednesdays

by Mark Hastings

Sundays are for Regulars, for weekly cleaning.  Sundays are always spent together, at the Lewises.  Casey and Mark go to bed sore and peaceful and clean and warm.  Whole.  Sundays are a deep rich blue, the smell of dark polished wood, a full stomach and a feeling of belonging.

By Wednesday, that’s worn off a little.  Mr. Lewis is fond of saying, as he shaves on Wednesday morning, that Wednesday is the worst day of the week. Equidistant from the comfort of weekend.  Neither the residual freshness of Tuesday, or the slight anticipation of Thursday.  Nothing but acres of dullness.  Mrs. Lewis has Commitments on Wednesdays, so supper is usually something cold.  Mark and Casey both have School things that they hate. For Mark, it’s morning gym, ninety minutes of effort with the school Sergeant’s swagger stick flailing its response to slackness, and the inevitability of at least one vault-horse caning, ‘poer incurriger les otters’.   For Casey, double Latin in the afternoon with the psychotically sarcastic Mr. Whitworth, whose greatest pleasure is to decline irregular verbs in time with his strap-strokes, and who makes a virtue of leathering girls just as hard as boys.  Out in front of the class, but facing towards your peers so they are spared the worst witness of unprotected strapping, and can better concentrate on construe.

Mark has learned to avoid the Wednesday vault-horse, and Casey the mid-week strap, because on Wednesday evenings they have their “Little Chat”.

The children do the dishes after supper, while Mr. Lewis goes to his study, and Mrs. Lewis rests up.  There is a sense of anticipation, although it isn’t the edginess of Sunday, before the Regulars, because often a Little Chat is just that.  Even so, the dishes get done well, and quietly, on the whole, on Wednesdays.  Mark and Casey smarten themselves up, and jaunt carefully along the downstairs corridor to the study.  Sometimes Mrs. Lewis joins them, sometimes not.

Little Chats are lucky-dippy.  In the months since Casey’s arrival they have ranged from a particularly uncomfortable interview over a broken ornament (Casey), cleverly replaced on its shelf (Mark) and not discovered broken for some time afterwards (Mrs. Lewis), to a riotous game of Racing Demon in which Mr. Lewis was heard to swear when Casey stole his Ace of Spades, was sent to the corner by his family and threatened with a very hard whacking by Mark if he ever did it again.  On average, one or both of the Lewises feel that one or both of the children would benefit from a little additional discipline perhaps one week in two.

Little Chat discipline is always the same – slipper, paddle or hand, administered in traditional manner, across the knee of the parent in the clock-ticky quiet of Mr. Lewis’s study.  It’s very different from Regulars. Canes, birches, crops and straps are banned.  Punishments are measured in minutes, rather than strokes.  Usually either a Quin, being–as Casey might explain–five minutes, or a Dix, being ten.  Mark hates Dixes, with a passion, especially when they’re paddle, and administered by Mrs. Lewis. Casey has mixed feelings about the whacking, but she loves the closeness and warmth of Little Chats, the fire glowing orange while the wind blows white outside on winter Wednesdays.

So, Wednesdays are made red, a smell of incense, a little adventure, and fun.

Think you?

That was just background for you. I could tell you more stories along similar lines, but we do all need to eat today. Let me tell you instead about my friend’s first sight of a porn magazine. She was sleeping over at her best friend’s house (let us call this best friend Frances). This would have been around 5th grade (age 10-ish). Up at the top of the coat closet, Frances’s dad had a stash of Penthouse. My friend got only a glimpse of this periodical because she reacted pretty much as Poppy described here. (Such a great post, by the way!) This encounter with Frances’s dad’s Penthouse extinguished any interest my friend had in pornography. Thus, my friend looked to mainstream fiction, stage, and film for things to think about while falling asleep at night.

Fast forward to the late 1980′s when my friend was just starting college. Her mother was at this time going through a kind of rebirth, emerging  from a long, debilitating depression occasioned by divorce. As my friend discovered one day whilst poking through her mother’s bedside table, this rebirth apparently included a sexual revolution. Because in this bedside table, my friend found some extraordinary volumes. One, Anne Rice’s The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty. Two, a paperback called Venus in the Country, by Anonymous. There were a couple of other books along these lines, but my friend can’t remember the titles.

Now, you may well throw up a little in your mouth at the idea of finding your mother’s secret erotica stash. You might also writhe in agony imagining my friend’s discovery that her erstwhile euphemism-toting mama was a closet tgi enthusiast. But my friend, through some self-protective twist of psychology (or psychosis) managed to close her eyes to the source of these paperbacks and merely borrow them, one at a time, on the sly to peruse in her bedroom with the door locked. When my friend had to put the books back in place, she merely pretended she wasn’t doing what she was doing. Mentally, she went on a little vacation when it came time to borrow or return these volumes, which she did many times at the end of the 1980s. I guess she had a plentiful supply of mind bleach and no qualms about using it.

You may well ask why my friend did not simply jot down the titles and go buy copies for herself. Please understand: this would have been dirty. My friend would never have been able, then, to bring herself to purchase erotica in a store (Amazon.com did not yet exist). And to possess such books, to have them staring at her all the time from inside her own bedside table? Grody! Grody to the Max, in the parlance of the 1980s. My friend could only enjoy these books (thoroughly enjoy them) because they would not be there staring her in the face the next morning. She enjoyed them because they lived elsewhere.

And oh, did she enjoy them. The Sleeping Beauty series took her already wavy imagination and twisted it into tight kinks. And the quasi-Victorian compositions by Anonymous, where to begin? A commentator on Amazon says this of Venus in the Coutry:

I have owned this book for years having stolen it from my father’s dresser when I was a teenager. It is full of non-stop sexual encounters which seem to focus on the need to educate young maidens in the ways of the world.

My friend’s memory was hazy (when I interviewed her for this post) about the plots of these books by Anonymous. She remembers one in epistolary form (possibly the aforementioned Venus). It featured a household where the mistress took delight in corrupting the young girls who came into her service. Their bedrooms were equipped with peepholes, and early on the mistress arranged to catch some young servant pleasuring herself. The poor girl was hauled before the mistress, who threatened to send her back to her parents with a full explanation of her misconduct. The girl begged mercy, and the mistress granted it, but on two conditions: one, that she submit to an exemplary chastisement at the mistress’s hands; and two, that she submit to regular inspection to ensure she never do such a thing again. The poor girl agreed.

The inspection, to save the modesty both of the girl and of the inspector, would be done anonymously. The girl would go into the cellar and bend forward with her head and torso inside the dumb-waiter. The hatch would be lowered and locked across her waist, holding her firmly in place. Shortly, someone would come along, adjust her clothing, and perform the necessary inspection, which more often than not became an opportunity for sensitizing the girl to all of her exposed parts. The girl typically found herself in such a state after the inspections (by she knew not whom) that she was forced to repair to her chamber as quickly as possible to relieve the tension (all of which the mistress observed, delighted, through peepholes).

My friend also recounted a most satisfactory scene in which the mistress permitted her close friend (and governor at a reformatory) to conduct the inspection. This scene involved use of “the school spanking strap” as well as buggery, and afterwords, the girl was taken away, destined for the reformatory or the white-slave markets, my friend could not recall precisely which.

Of course, in later years my friend became more comfortable with erotic literature and acquired a respectable library of her own, but, she told me, she mourns some of those volumes from the unmentionable bedside table, since she cannot recall their titles, and since Venus in the Country, at least, is not readily available.

I told my friend that such lost classics are the spice of life, even more delightful through the confusion of nostalgia and likely improved by the imagination. Upon reflection, she rather agreed.

What about you? What are your Lost Classics?

The Professor lived with an Irish Setter—mad, soppy, antic. They took long daily walks and expected her to accompany them. Over the Burren, along the shore, up Connemara hills, in rain, in sun, in gale they walked.

He had no patience for petty regulations of the modern world. He bought his meat from a butcher out of the back of his farm, not licensed, but extraordinarily fresh and good. His milk came from a neighbor’s cow, his eggs from chickens down the lane. The hysterical alarms of contemporary life—H1N1, salmonella, pedophiles, climate change—meant nothing to him.

He did insist on certain courtesies. When he entered the room, she was to stand. When granted admission to his study, she was to give a small bow, more appropriate to a German schoolboy, she thought, than to an orphaned American girl. And when something she said or did indicated to him, by whatever mysterious code, that she required discipline, he administered it after the method of his childhood, with a slipper across his knee, or a worn leather strap. It was better, he said, all of it. More healthy, more traditional, more human.

Read the other folks writing this week:

• Travis King
• Rafi

Marcus sighed. Vincent may have been his cousin, but he knew nothing about reality. Marcus wanted to fire back a cutting retort—You would say that given the way your parents hover like nervous dragonflies. He said nothing, however. Vincent had received enough jibes of that nature in his first—and last—disastrous term at Public School. His overwrought parents had dispatched him for the holidays to the house Marcus shared with their grandfather. Marcus, though six months younger than his cousin, had quickly deciphered the situation by eavesdropping on the servants: Vincent’s parents were enmeshed in legal difficulties. There was talk of Debt, Divorce.

“The really good things are always terrifying,” Marcus replied. “At least before you have them.”

“I never have terrifying things,” Vincent declared loftily. Marcus recalled his cousin’s obnoxious refusal to sample unfamiliar foods at the dinner table and decided a counter-irritant was in order.

“In that case,” Marcus said, heading for the door of their sitting room, “you’ll have to spend the hols holed up in here.”

“Grandfather told us quite clearly we weren’t to wander.”

Marcus flashed a grin. “Say hello to the ghosts, then. I’m off.”

He felt an immeasurable relief to hear Vincent’s footsteps clattering down the nursery corridor behind him.

Vincent gasped: “Is our room haunted?”

Marcus shrugged. “The most haunted room in the house.” Vincent looked as though he might burst into tears. Marcus ignored his fear and led him up staircases, down corridors, and into and out of shut-up rooms, where they played the rest of the morning.

At lunch, their grandfather questioned them: “Keeping out of trouble?”

“Yes, sir,” Marcus replied confidently.

Their grandfather narrowed his eyes. “You and I have yet to discuss your term reports, boy. I don’t recommend going for extras.”

“No, sir.” Marcus swallowed his soup serenely.

“Do not be under any illusions,” their grandfather said to Vincent. “My daughter may have wrapped you in cotton wool, but I most certainly will not.” Vincent blushed and looked hard-done-by. “There’s to be no more wasted food, for starters,” their grandfather continued. “You’ll eat what you’re given or go hungry the rest of the day.”

This approach was far too direct, Marcus could see, and served only to push Vincent into a stubborn realm of nausea. He ate no more of the lunch, and cloistered himself upstairs at tea-time. The next day Marcus redoubled his efforts, leading Vincent to some of the more thrilling corners of the house, peepholes, for instance, which revealed scullery maids bathing, or the stableboys exercising themselves whilst discussing the scullery maids. Marcus even contrived to position them to observe the stableboys’ punishment by the groom. Marcus hoped their stoicism unter the strap would provide inspiration for his cousin.

The second week they roamed beyond the grounds and into the district where they met with Marcus’s friend, Jasper, and Jasper’s delicious sister Susan. Whenever Vincent showed signs of wanting to stay behind, Marcus embroidered his accounts of ghosts. Vincent’s interest in them never waned, and in fact grew faintly ravenous.

One afternoon pelting rain confined them indoors. Marcus began to recount another imagined other-worldly encounter. Vincent interrupted and pointed to a small cupboard behind the settee.

“That’s where the noises come from. The ghosts.” Vincent reported this information with a good deal more enthusiasm than Marcus previously would have thought possible.

Marcus grinned: “Let’s turf ‘em out, then!” Vincent joined with enthusiasm, and soon they’d coated themselves in dust, emptied the cupboard, and uncovered a hidden door. Vincent wrenched it open and crawled, heedless, inside.

A mighty crash followed. Marcus peered into the darkness and soon found himself flailing down a tin shaft and landing painfully some distance below.

“You, too?” said his grandfather’s voice as Marcus felt his grandfather’s powerful arm hauling him to his feet. He blinked and tried to breathe. They had landed somehow in the library and now stood, filthy, before him. He raised a hand to silence them: “No explanation necessary. If you’ll be so good as to fetch the cane, Marcus, you know where it lives, I shall dust your jackets for you.”

Vincent emerged from his caning considerably more confident than Marcus had seen him. He grew to love their grandfather’s house, and spoke of it enthusiastically at school, where he joined Marcus the following term.

“It was the sort of house that you never seem to come to the end of,” Vincent would recount, “And it was full of unexpected places.”

Sorry about the late posting this week. I’ve been catching up on some sleep…

Also writing this week, PapaTomLA–check out his story.

—Let me go!

—Shan’t. You’re a horrid, dirty boy spying on us.

—He saw us the whole time.

—He saw our knickers!

—Let’s pluck out his eyes.

—Let’s feed him to the Germans.

—Quiet, all of you. He’s got to have a proper trial. Right then, you, what do you have to say for yourself?

—Cat got your tongue?

—Not so clever now, is he?

—Order! Nothing to say…? Then the court finds you guilty of espionage in the first degree. And public lewdness.

—I wasn’t lewd!

—Shut up. It’s time to discuss your punishment.

—Let’s tell his Headmaster. He’ll get the cane.

—Let’s tell his dad. He’ll get it unprotected.

—If we tell his mum, he’ll get the hairbrush first.

—Mum said he’d get the strap as well if there was any more nonsense.

—Traitor!

—Should’ve seen him last night in the air raid shelter.

—If you say one word—

—Ow, Mum, please! Mummy! And that was just the slipper.

—I’m going to kill you, I am.

—No you aren’t, boy. You’re going to listen to us. The court will consider a gesture of compassion.

—Well, what?

—Sulking isn’t done, you know.

—If you agree not harm the witness here, now or ever, and if you agree to accept the punishment of the court, we will keep this matter amongst ourselves.

—What’s the punishment of the court, then?

—Three from each of us, with this.

—But that makes…

—Don’t strain yourself calculating. It’s that or we tell your mum, your dad, and your Headmaster.

—That’s not fair!

—Your choice.

—You’re evil, you are.

—Insulting the court will get you nowhere.

—If I agree, then that’s an end to it? You won’t tell anyone else?

—Right.

—What about the boys?

—No-one.

—Well…

Microfantasy Monday is the brainchild of Sweltering Celt. The theme this week via ButchtasticKyle was espionage.

It’s hard to describe what it’s like to knock around the same house wearing things he would have fancied an awful lot and not have him here to say things.

Last weekend I ventured  into a form of half-mourning with some dark-dyed jean shorts. Up until now, I’ve been wearing all black every day, with the exception of the grey suit I wore to a graduation this June. Here in Gotham, lots of people wear all black, so it doesn’t quite communicate what it might have in other times, but then I don’t wear it for other people. These dark blue short, however, felt…gaudy, even when paired with a black top and shoes. I can completely see the point of half-mourning, i.e. mixing greys and other dark tones in with the black for a half a year. After 14 months of all black, color feels alarming.

He would have liked these blue shorts, a lot. They would probably have made him want to take out a paddle, or a strap. Maybe, if worn up in the country, they would have made him want to take them down, and perhaps apply some switch cut from the yard, or just his hand.

I don’t really know. I won’t know. These days I’m no longer a temptation in shorts, but just a middle-aged woman slobbing around in clothes that are probably too young for her.

He had vested already and summoned her forward with efficient finger. She preferred him in smoking jacket to rector’s cassock, though it made no difference to his right arm.

He crossed his arms and forced a frown. “What are we going to do with you?”

She looked down. A rustle of robes, then his hand lifted her chin, firm yet compassionate.

“Haven’t you anything to say, child?” She blinked, setting her jaw against the sudden sting in her eyes. Outside the lead-paned windows, a bruise-colored cloud advanced across blue sky, promising a May shower. His hand shifted to the back of her neck, his ring warm against her ear. “I suppose you’re my cross to bear,” he said wryly. She hoped he wasn’t attempting a pun.

“Right.” He stepped back. “I’m not going to cane you for this.” A surge of relief, and surprise. “But I am going to take the strap to you.” He reached for the tawse unseen on his desk, its back rough leather. She swallowed.

Directing her to the arm of the settee, he bent her over it and lifted her grey school skirt.

“What is this?” His voice scandalized. She craned to see the hem of her skirt smeared with lemon meringue from luncheon.

“I – ” she began.

He returned her to position. “You, child, are incorrigible. My cross to bear indeed.”

My story went a few words over, but with six wildcards (albeit six of the best), you gotta hope for leeway.

Check out other FFF stories from this week:

• Naughtyabby – The Little Red Schoolhouse
• Rafi’s World
• PapaTomLA
• Joe at Spanking Resource